Happy Holidays, monstertea!

[goe_mod]

 

Title: will the circle be unbroken

Summary: Anathema isn’t looking for the Book, so of course she doesn’t find it. But she does find one of the people who took it.

A bookverse fic for monstertea. Happy holidays!

Rating: G

 

Anathema wasn't trying to find the Book. Her copy had been the only one in existence, she was aware of that. There wasn't a charity shop or rare bookstore she could check where she'd happen upon a copy. She'd asked at the airfield, and the man—angel?—the thing with the wings who wore sunglasses had looked at the smoldering husk of his old car, and then back to her, and he'd shaken his head sadly, and that was that. The Book was gone; she knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

 

It didn't stop her looking. Newt knew that was what she was doing when she kept checking the antique shop on Tadfield's high street. He always gave her a knowing look and moved her along, often trying to distract her. He was actually quite sweet about it. It was a shame, him turning out to be so lovely. It made breaking up with him that much harder once she figured out that just because the Book had said she was going to sleep with a man, didn't mean she was actually attracted to men. He helped her move back in with her parents. She didn't tell them about the Book, and they didn't question it when she darted in and out of every place she could think of that might have old books in Lancashire. She was still their daughter, they'd told her when she came out to them, still their clever girl, and they were so proud of her. It made her feel sick to hear it.

 

It was when she was living with them again that she started resenting Newt. The house was filled with photos and trinkets, family memories dating back generations, all of them as familiar to her as her own reflection. How many descendants had she deprived of the advantage their family had always had over the rest of the world? What right had she had to burn Agnes's new prophecies? She was lost, and now all her descendants were going to be, too.

 

Her mother had told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked, but once her parents started getting concerned she realized she needed to start moving on. She needed to find a job, for a start, now that the world was ending. Her friend Heather from her PhD program was living in London, and when Anathema called to check in she offered her couch so that Anathema could look for jobs at the universities there.

 

She had a bit of time after an interview at King's College, so she decided to have a wander and see where her feet led her. She didn't give it any particular thought when she headed into Soho, nor when she found herself walking into yet another old bookshop. It had a nasty smell and shelves stuffed to bursting, which filled her with a sense of hope she had to stamp out like the butt of a cigarette. [1] She wasn't going to find a copy of the Book, but if there was anyplace she might find it, it was here. That she’d har that thought a thousand times before was immaterial.

 

She began browsing the stacks. There didn’t seem to be any system of organization she could understand, but that didn’t really matter when one was looking for something one knew one wasn’t going to find. She browsed the shelves aimlessly, walking without thinking until she turned a corner and nearly bumped into someone.

 

“Oh!” she said. “Sorry.”

 

He glared at her over half-moon glasses. He looked unhappy to see her, which was fair enough because quite frankly Anathema wasn’t too keen to see anybody during this embarrassing venture, but then she recognized him. Anathema didn’t think much about the Saturday the world was meant to end. She was aware her memory had been directed away from it, but it was more of a gentle tug than actual force, so she was able to remember what she needed to when she needed to.

 

And she remembered who’d stolen and destroyed her book.

 

“You,” she seethed.

 

The thing that might have been an angel froze. “You,” he concurred, sounding considerably more pleased to see her than she was him.

 

Anathema tried to think of something to say. She wanted to shout at him, to let him know just what she’d been through in the year since the world failed to end, to blame him for her cold, empty, directionless life, anything. But instead, like a useless idiot, she started to cry. [2]

 

At a loss for what else to do, Aziraphale rushed to the front window, turned the shop’s sign to CLOSED, and whisked Anathema into the back of his shop. Anathema didn’t remember him making tea, but she felt him press a hot mug into her hands all the same. “There,” he said. “Two sugars and a splash of milk, just the way you like it.”

 

Anathema sniffed and lifted the cup to her lips. It was just the way she liked it, but that didn’t make him any less of a thief. She glared at him. “You stole my book,” she huffed, trying very hard to steady her trembling lip so she’d look less like an indignant toddler.

 

The angel sat back, clasping his hands together and looking away guiltily. His aura was bright, unlike anything Anathema had ever seen, but it was blue-green with guilt she could read as easily as any human. “If it helps,” he said, “I should never have made it to Tadfield without it. Neither would Crowley. There was a terrible fire in this shop before Adam set everything right. He saved it from burning before it met its end in his car.”

 

She glowered. “Well, I’m glad someone got some use out of it before my family’s most treasured possession burned to nothing. Have you got any idea what it’s like, losing something that important? Knowing it’s gone for good and you can’t get it back and knowing how absolutely bloody furious people are going to be when they find out?”

 

Aziraphale stared at her, and then his gaze went a far away. “Yes,” he said, his voice speaking from someplace else. “Yes, actually, I think I do.” He snapped back to the present, and suddenly there was a small bottle of fine scotch on the table between them. “Here,” he said, pushing it toward her. “To, er, fortify your tea.”

 

Anathema poured what she hoped was a finger of whisky into her mug and lifted it to the angel. “Cheers,” she said, taking a drink.

 

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry we didn’t take better care of it.”

 

Anathema put her tea down and went to wipe her nose on her hand before Aziraphale held out a handkerchief to her. She took it gratefully and blew. “It’s not just about the old book,” she said. “There was a new one. I burned it without even reading it.”

 

Aziraphale’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates. “I— You— A new book of prophecies? From Agnes Nutter?”

 

“Yes,” said Anathema sullenly.

 

The angel was clearly exercising every iota of restraint in his earthbound corporation. “And you burned it?”

 

“Alright, pal, you know what? That book wasn't about you. You were mentioned maybe once in it. Me, my whole life was dictated by that book. It told my father where to meet my mom, what stocks to invest in, what schools to send me to, what man I should—“ She cut herself off and took another long sip of tea. “I’m well shot of it, is what I’m saying.”

 

Aziraphale stared at her, his head tilted like a dog who’d heard a funny sound. “So you’ve broken things off with the witchfinder, then.”

 

“Yeah. Amicably. We just weren’t… compatible. The book was wrong.”

 

He smiled. “Sometimes where you’re told you’re meant to be isn’t actually where you belong. Sometimes it’s the opposite, I’ve found.”

 

She blew her nose again. “How do you mean?”

 

“Well,” he said, “to put it bluntly, you aren’t the only one who’s had an existential crisis since last August. I think the difference is that your crisis led to a parting of the ways, whereas mine has finally brought me closer to someone I’ve been pushing away for millennia.”

 

“Your man in the sunglasses,” Anathema said, remembering the two of them holding hands on the airfield. "Why were you pushing him away?"

 

"He's a demon. Generally, angels aren't meant to befriend demons—let alone pursue any other sort of relationship with them." [3] He sat back in his chair and clasped his hand in his lap. "It's comforting, having a plan to follow in life, even when it takes you places you'd never choose for yourself. I spent so long denying myself happiness because the thing I knew would make me happy didn't fit with the way of living that made me feel safe. It took six thousand years and the end of the world for me to realize what a fool I'd been. I don't think I'm the person to advise you how to proceed, my dear, but I think I can imagine better than most what you're going through."

 

Anathema sipped her tea again, giving herself a moment to think. "What are you doing now that you've figured it out?"

 

"Living, more or less. Making up for lost time where I can." He shrugged. "In some ways, I've been rebelling for years without admitting it. But, then, Heaven getting things wrong is a rather different beast to a prophetess who was doing her best to steer her descendants in the right direction. I read that book cover to cover, and I got the sense that, if your life doesn't fit what Agnes Nutter predicted, she'd rather you follow your heart than her advice. Heaven is something of a political entity, and it has its own agenda, but your ancestor was one woman doing what she thought was best for her family. If that effort was sincere, she'd be pleased that you've decided to go in a better direction than the one she laid out."

 

She nodded. "Thank you. That actually helps."

 

"Does it?" asked Aziraphale, looking genuinely shocked.

 

"Yeah." She finished her tea and stood. "I should be going. Heather—my friend I'm staying with in London, that is, she's expecting me back soon."

 

Aziraphale stood as well. "If you're ever in London again, you're welcome to drop by."

 

"I might do," she said, "especially if I get that position at King's." She held out a hand to him. "Thanks again. Really."

 

He shook it. "The pleasure was all mine, my dear."

 

When Anathema went, he took a moment to observe her as she walked out into Soho. He took particular note when her gaze lingered on a young woman with purple hair and entirely more piercings than necessary, and he nudged the woman's mind to make sure Anathema stuck out in her memory. Then, smiling, he took out his planner and penciled in a note to pay a visit to King's College soon. Perhaps he wasn't certain where he stood with Heaven anymore, but Aziraphale was a Principality, and it was clear to him that Anathema was one of his own to look after.

 

[1] Not that Anathema was much of a smoker, herself, or a fan of littering. Once when she was seven she'd bit a man for throwing a crisp packet on the ground, and to this day she maintained that the only reason she'd been wrong to do it was that there were social and legal consequences for assault.

[2] This was a more effective punishment than Anathema suspected. Aziraphale seldom knew what to do when humans were crying, especially with their snot and tears so close to his books.

[3] Apart from "nemesis," or "executioner."